


now rough, now gentle

by deadlifts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Porn with Feelings, a lot of feelings, on dimitri's cloak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: There was never any question as to who would be the one to save Dimitri from the magic that is currently draining his life.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 30
Kudos: 167
Collections: Dimilix NSFW Bingo





	now rough, now gentle

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: The fuck or die trope involves dubcon by nature of forcing someone to have sex to live, so please consider that before reading. Both Felix and Dimitri experience a variety of emotions, including hesitancy and struggle over the act, throughout this fic. There's also some angst.

It plays out like a scene from their childhood: Ingrid, Felix, and Sylvain huddled together, whispering so as not to be overhead. Were it not for the lack of childish voices raising in laughter and the absolute solemnity of the camp awaiting several paces away, there might be a sense of nostalgia laced throughout the conversation. Sylvain must have a similar thought, because he makes a joke in poor taste, Ingrid glares, and Felix — 

Felix steps away from them. 

“Felix?” Sylvain asks, his tone now apologetic, as though his joke caused this reaction. 

It didn’t. This isn’t about the joke. 

“Where are you going?” Ingrid calls as Felix begins to walk away from them, unable to take it any longer. 

How often had he wanted this situation to play out back at the Academy? The three of them united in their concern, asking each other, _What should we do about Dimitri?_

He doesn’t believe in dwelling on the past, in shackling himself to the dead, in entertaining the _what if_ questions that may have led them to a different path. And yet he finds the past winding through his mind like a thick, stubborn weed. It threatens to drag him down, to root him to the ground, to keep him in struggling in place — fighting a war for a man for whom his family has fallen, and continues to fall. 

Felix seeks Dimitri, as he always does. It doesn’t matter what his words have said, or what his anger has attempted to push away. This is a fact: Felix always looks for Dimitri in the end. 

He doesn’t always find him. 

Like now: Dimitri is sitting beneath a tree in the fading light of the evening, alone, leaning so far forward he could topple over. But it isn’t Dimitri — not really. It isn’t the boar, either. This is someone who is vacant, empty, unseeing as he looks into a darkness that stares back at him, waiting. 

“Stand up,” Felix tells him. 

Dimitri doesn’t move. 

“Did you hear me? I said stand up.” Felix bends to shove his shoulder. Dimitri passively moves with the force of it, but returns back to his slumping state as soon as Felix withdraws. 

Dimitri doesn’t look like he’s dying. The dying rarely do. Glenn had looked vibrant as he rode off to Duscur, despite being shrouded in doom. His father had death surrounding him at Gronder, but no one could see it until it was too late. Death is invisible, even when it stains everything around you. Even when it’s his own blade unsheathed and pointed at his childhood best friend, against the rage and despair that threatens to spill forth from his mouth. 

Dimitri raises his head as soon as the cold metal touches his neck. He looks at Felix with a tired, burdened eye, and murmurs his name like it’s a distant memory. 

“Are you going to sit there and allow this to happen?” Felix demands, pressing the point of his sword into the skin of Dimitri’s neck. “After everything?” 

After Glenn, after his father, after the countless who have died in the name of this war — after Felix has sacrificed so much to be standing here right now, still at his side, attempting to usher in change under a king who vacillates between beast and man. 

“Do you think I will let you?” Felix demands, the blade attempting to shake within his hand, his words attempting to quaver out of his throat. 

“No,” Dimitri answers slowly. “Not you.” 

As Dimitri moves to stand, Felix keeps the blade connected to him as though it is a lifeline, as though it can somehow restore what Dimitri is actively losing by simply sitting here. Only when Dimitri is upright, looking down instead of up at Felix, does he finally shove it back into its sheath. 

Then he takes his sword belt off and sets it on the ground. 

This restores Dimitri to the present moment. He frowns at the belt, and then at Felix. There is a sword’s length between them, but Dimitri closes that gap with a single step. He places a hand on Felix’s shoulder, looks him in the eye, and says with all the regality of a king, “I will not.” 

“You will,” Felix replies, tone tight, anger bleeding through. 

There was never any question as to who would be the one to save Dimitri from the magic that is currently draining his life. There was never any doubt as to who would be stubborn enough to rescue him from his fatalistic desire for punishment, his unspoken but apparent acceptance of death as atonement. Sylvain could make the argument of experience. Ingrid could speak of duty. But Felix is the only one who truly saw Dimitri for who he was and who he could be. He is the only one who cared enough to despise what he had become. 

He is the only one who hated it enough to look for him: after he became the boar, after he disappeared, and now, before he gives in to death. 

Dimitri grazes his gloved fingers over his cheekbone to where his hair has fallen free of its tie, an act of tenderness that burns Felix’s skin. He tucks the strands behind Felix’s ear and says softly, “I do not deserve this.” 

“It is not a matter of deserving,” Felix replies. His heart begins to race and he has a sudden, intense desire to scramble for his sword, to fight an enemy that neither of them can see. “It is a matter of life and death.” 

“My life —” Dimitri begins, but Felix interrupts him. 

“Stop. Save it for the professor, or for Mercedes, or anyone else who has the patience to listen to you.” Dimitri’s hand still lingers beside Felix’s face, so Felix pushes his arm away. 

“Felix —” Dimitri tries again. 

“If you aren’t going to help me with this, then shut up and let me do it.” Felix reaches forward to unclasp Dimitri’s cloak, allowing it to fall to the ground. Dimitri remains standing, still frowning, as Felix then works on his armor: his spaulders, which clank together in protest, the breastplate, which he tosses aside, and then the gloves, first one hand, and then the other. Dimitri allows himself to be unclothed in this manner, Felix treating it like a task, refusing to look back up into his eye. 

Once his hands are bare, Dimitri stretches his fingers, then curls them, over and over again, as though weighing what he could do with them — the damage that he could cause. 

Felix takes the strap of Dimitri’s belt in his hand, but Dimitri stops him by wrapping his fingers around Felix’s wrist. “I will not make you undress me.” 

Felix feels heat rise into his cheeks at the way Dimitri gives voice to this act, but scowls it away. “I don’t care who does it, just get it done.” 

He turns away and listens to Dimitri shuffle out of the rest of his clothing. 

Then he works on himself, stripping away both figurative and literal armor as he prepares himself for what he is about to become — a Fraldarius making a sacrifice to save Dimitri’s life yet again. 

When he turns back around, he sees that Dimitri has lain out his cloak as though it is a blanket. Dimitri stands waiting in nothing but his eye patch. Felix's eyes roam over the scars that tell the story of five difficult years, the taut muscles that betray Dimitri's discomfort, the downward curve of his lips. 

He doesn’t know what to say. Being naked around soldiers is hardly an uncommon event, but this is different. He feels exposed and once again aches for his sword. 

He settles on stating, “You can take that off if it is uncomfortable,” as he gestures upward toward Dimitri’s face. 

Dimitri looks surprised at his kindness, which irritates Felix, because he’s been trying to offer kindness this whole time — even if it is wrapped up in annoyance and delivered in his usual brusque manner. 

“It is…unsightly,” Dimitri explains. 

“Everything we’re about to do is unsightly.” It’s a harsh way to frame it, considering Dimitri’s reluctance, but Felix has never been talented in easing his words. It’s easier to speak with spite than it is to say, _I don’t care what you look like. Your missing eye will not bother me._

Dimitri, who has never been talented in translating Felix’s anger, sighs heavily. “You are right.” He takes off the eyepatch and tosses it into the pile, revealing the caved in scar tissue that is no more startling to Felix than any other battle wound. 

Then they stand there, naked before each other, unmoving and unsure. 

Until Felix rolls his eyes and complains, “This is ridiculous.” He cannot stand inaction, this waiting around for something else to happen when nothing will. All they have is each other, and between them, only this one solution. 

He crouches by his clothes to find the vial of oil he grabbed long before Sylvain and Ingrid called him for conversation. He brings it to the cloak and takes a seat. “Watch or don’t,” he says to Dimitri, whose eye is on him, “but be ready to get this over with.” 

Felix knows that for all his determination to push them through this, his cheeks are aflame and his body is tense. He doesn’t look at Dimitri as he uncorks the bottle impatiently, preparing to coat his fingers so he can ready himself. 

Dimitri joins him on the cloak, sitting beside him. His proximity makes Felix falter. He holds the vial in the air, slightly tilted toward his open palm. 

“Do you remember,” Dimitri begins in a low, mournful tone, “when we were children and you asked me to play that game with the coin?” 

Felix remembers. It was an idiotic game where two people would make fists upon a surface and fling a coin at each other until someone’s knuckles were bleeding. There was no point to it, but Glenn had taught it to him and Felix had wanted to show him he could be strong. He wanted to prove that he wouldn’t cry. 

“You promised me it wouldn’t hurt,” Dimitri continues. “But I made you bleed with my first turn. I made you cry.” 

Felix corks the vial again and sets it between them, his movements exaggerated in his frustration. “Why are you talking about that?” Of all times to discuss their youth, this is perhaps the worst of all. Felix doesn’t want to hear it. 

“Felix.” Dimitri glances down at Felix’s empty hand, then back up at his face. “I do not want to hurt you.” 

“We aren’t children,” Felix sneers. “I am not so easily hurt anymore.” 

Dimitri doesn’t believe him. Felix can tell in the way his eye remains focused on his face, the way his chest slowly rises and falls as he considers what to say next. 

In the gap that lingers between them, Felix asks, “Do you think me so weak?” 

“No,” Dimitri replies. “I think myself weak.” 

Felix tries to drain some of the frustration from his tone. He is only partially successful. “I made you play the game.” 

“I could have said no.” Dimitri reaches for the vial that rests between them. He curls his fingers around it. 

“Stop.” Felix closes his eyes and tries to take a steadying breath. “If you keep talking, you’ll waste what time you have.” This isn’t the time to bring up the past, to try to create parallels where none exist. This is a matter of saving Dimitri's life. They don’t have the luxury of reminiscing the night away. 

When he opens his eyes again, Dimitri is staring at his face. 

“Then,” Dimitri murmurs, “at least allow me to make this easier on you.” A pause. “On us both.” 

“Fine,” Felix replies, voice softer than he wants it to be. “Do whatever you want.” 

He tries to look away, but Dimitri leans in and cups his cheek before he can. Felix glares at him, silently warning him against his ridiculous notion of how to make this easier, but Dimitri kisses him anyway. 

It’s a soft, unassuming kiss. Dimitri acts as though his mouth could be a dangerous weapon, allowing only the slightest pressure against Felix’s barely-parted lips. Felix doesn’t move, not even when Dimitri’s tongue tentatively brushes against his lower lip, a silent question. He doesn’t kiss Dimitri back, though his body alights with heat at the contact, this chaste and foolish act enough to kindle a fire within him. 

Felix gives nothing in return. 

But he does not pull away. 

When Dimitri breaks the kiss, Felix cannot look at him, cannot handle being, for once, the singular focus of Dimitri’s attention. It’s too much, too tender, too fucking strange, and it stirs so many feelings within him that Felix wants to snuff out his own heart. 

He snarls, “Don’t,” because his words are the only weapon he has. “Don’t you dare do that again.” 

Dimitri does not flinch. He does not turn away. He does nothing that he should in response to those words, that acidic tone, the hatred that Felix wills himself to remember. He simply murmurs, “Okay,” and does not kiss him again. 

Dimitri turns his attention to Felix’s hair, fingers moving from cheek to hair tie to undo the ponytail that Felix neglected to fix while stripping. “You will be more comfortable this way,” he says as Felix’s hair falls free. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Felix protests, though he makes no attempt to take back the hair tie that Dimitri sets at the edge of the cloak. 

“It does,” Dimitri argues. For the first time, a hint of anger enters his tone. “I cannot — will not do this if you are uncomfortable.” 

“Stop babying me." Felix can handle discomfort easily. Isn’t that what he’s doing right now? Dimitri is so close, Felix cannot take a breath without the risk of brushing against him, of their knees bumping together, of falling into another kiss. It’s uncomfortable and he is so tightly wound he feels as though the slightest misstep will unravel him. 

A moment of silence passes between them. Dimitri’s gaze goes distant. Felix becomes aware of the chill of the approaching night, goosebumps surfacing on his skin. When Dimitri says nothing, Felix grows more concerned than he is annoyed, thinking that maybe the magic has already started taking him away by snaking through his fragile mind. He opens his mouth to question him, but Dimitri finally speaks. 

“If we are to do this, then you should lie back.” His tone has turned somber again. 

“Finally,” Felix mutters, pulling away from Dimitri to lie on his back and stretch out his legs. He doesn’t like this — how he is out in the open, pliant and waiting, made vulnerable by circumstances and his own foolish choices — but it is time they get this over with. 

He expects Dimitri to finally use the oil, but Dimitri leaves the vial on the cloak. Rather than settling himself between Felix’s legs, he hovers beside him. 

“What —” Felix begins, but Dimitri shakes his head. 

“Enough, Felix.” Dimitri’s voice is quiet, but firmer than Felix expects, and his surprise is enough to shut him up. “You are not ready, and neither am I.” 

He’s correct. They’re both still flaccid, despite the brief flare of interest elicited by the kiss. Felix huffs out a breath but remains silent, biting his tongue because they need to hurry through this and cannot continue to waste time with conversation. 

Dimitri leans over him. Felix’s body goes from cold to hot in a quick flash of expectation. Dimitri will not kiss his mouth again, Felix knows, but his breath catches in his throat all the same. When Dimitri finally does make contact with his body, it’s to move his lips along Felix’s neck, trailing light kisses downward, over his shoulder, then along his collarbone. His hand rests along Felix’s ribs, then slides to his hip, but pauses there, going no further. 

Every movement is hesitant and unpracticed, overly careful, far too controlled. And yet Felix finds himself raw with the desire to arch into each kiss, to seek more contact. When he does not give in to that impulse, his rush of wanting is released in the form of a shiver that courses through his body and causes him to dig his fingernails into Dimitri’s cloak. 

“What is this,” he whispers, staring at the darkening sky while Dimitri continues to kiss his way downward, lips tracing the contour of his chest. This isn’t what he envisioned when he made his decision — this isn’t what he wants. He expected this to be quick, impersonal, maybe even a little rough, conducted in a way he understands. Not gentle, careful — not treated like he is breakable. 

When Dimitri’s mouth glides lower, nearing his abdomen, Felix hisses audibly and without quite realizing what he’s doing, he grabs for Dimitri’s head — tangles his hand in his hair, unsure if he’s trying to stop him or encourage him further. 

It’s too much. 

“I cannot.” Dimitri steals the words before Felix can speak them himself. He rests his forehead against Felix’s chest and says again, “I cannot.” 

Felix inhales a shaky breath. “You can.” His voice is weaker than he wants it to be. He clenches the hand that has hold of Dimitri’s hair. “Look at me,” he demands, forcing his words to sound resolute. 

When Dimitri doesn’t comply, Felix says firmly, “Dimitri.” 

At the use of his name, Dimitri looks up, eye wide, entirely in the present moment. Felix’s grip remains tight in his hair, but Dimitri doesn’t wince at the pull. 

When he sees the look on Dimitri's face, Felix has to fight against looking away. He now understands why Dimitri brought up that stupid game with the coin. It doesn’t matter the time that has passed or the way that Dimitri has gone from boy to beast to man, he sees in his face that same expression he saw all those years ago — the hesitancy, the fear, the concern, the way Dimitri seemed to think that he could destroy Felix with one flick of the coin. The way he had been correct, back then, and the way he could be correct now. 

What had Felix done back then? He had clenched his fists and yelled, _I’m not a baby! You’re not going to hurt me!_ and Dimitri had looked at his feet and asked, _Are you sure?_ , which had been the wrong thing to say because it made Felix feel like he _was_ calling him a baby. But instead of getting upset, he had taken Dimitri’s hand and said, _Yes, come on._

So Felix releases Dimitri’s hair. He reaches for his hand instead. He tries to be gentle. He tries to say, _Come on_ with his body instead of his words. 

He guides Dimitri’s hand to his barely-hard cock and shows him that this is okay. Dimitri allows himself to be moved, but when Felix releases a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding, Dimitri loses his passivity. He props himself up on his arm, looking down at Felix’s face while he lightly brushes his fingers along his length. 

Felix doesn’t like being studied, not even during the best of times. He doesn’t want Dimitri to see what this does to him — the way arousal makes him swallow a whine, the way his hips want to press forward, the way something within him is cracking and spilling. So he keeps Dimitri from watching. 

He kisses him. 

It isn’t the kiss of moments prior, chaste and unsure. Felix kisses Dimitri the way he fights — intense, with a confident press of his lips, a sure wielding of his tongue. Dimitri parts his lips and Felix shows him that he doesn’t need gentle treatment, that he isn’t breakable, that he won’t shatter as Dimitri finally touches his cock in earnest, his hand becoming more assertive, his body losing the will to hold back. 

Felix kisses Dimitri as though he’s fighting a battle. And he is, on multiple fronts: a battle against the magic that has Dimitri at his mercy, a battle against Dimitri’s fears, and a battle against himself, torn between wanting and hating. 

Dimitri kisses him back as though he’s been starved, a hunger in the way his tongue finds Felix’s, the way he breaks the kiss simply so that he can start it again, the second contact nearly bruising in its fervor. Dimitri moans, low and dangerous, and it tears through the tattered remains of Felix’s hold on himself. Felix rolls his hips, encouraging Dimitri as his fingers move from circling his cock to fondling his balls. 

They have to break apart again, because Dimitri’s fingers wander downward and find his hole, tease at it, press at it just enough that Felix cannot stifle the gasp that breaks free of his lips. 

“The oil,” Felix breathes. 

Dimitri reaches for it, releasing Felix entirely so he can coat his fingers. “I want to believe you want this,” he says quietly. 

Felix does want this, but wants to believe that he doesn’t, and he cannot vocalize either feeling. He can only watch Dimitri, his face hot, his eyes half-lidded, breath shallow, as Dimitri’s now-slick finger finds his hole once again, and this time, presses inside. 

Even though Dimitri eases his finger with slow and careful pressure, Felix is forced to shut his eyes, to groan against the sensation, somewhere between pleasure and discomfort as he pushes in. But Dimitri stops before his finger is entirely inside, leaving Felix aching with anticipation. 

“What are you doing?” he snaps, raising his head to glower at Dimitri, though his words are too weak to sound angry. “Come on.” 

"I am trying," Dimitri replies with difficulty, words faltering under the weight of emotion. 

It occurs to Felix that he should keep encouraging Dimitri, to keep him from backing out of this now that they have come this far. As Dimitri resumes pushing his finger in, frowning down at him, Felix reaches for him — finds Dimitri’s cock, still mostly soft despite everything that they are doing, and he _touches_. 

It’s a quick touch, just a light brushing of fingers over his crown, but seems to awaken something within Dimitri just as the kiss had. Dimitri grunts and pushes the rest of his finger inside of Felix. Felix gasps, his body tensing at the sudden change in confidence. 

He expects Dimitri to give him a moment to adjust to the sensation, to decide that he wants more, but before his mind fully accepts that it _is_ pleasurable, Dimitri pulls his finger back and slides a second inside without so much as a pause. 

Felix closes his eyes and throws back his head, his mind stuttering. When it catches up with what is happening, he realizes that’s making a sound that can only be called _keening_ , like an animal, something between a whine and a wail, and it’s so embarrassing that Felix wants to shove Dimitri away and tell him to go fuck himself in every sense of the expression. 

But when he forces his eyes open and attempts to still his quivering legs, he sees that Dimitri is looking at him differently now. No longer does he seem to be afraid of hurting Felix, of what might be waiting for them at the end of this act. He now seems to want this, and a quick glance downward shows that he is finally growing aroused. 

In a voice drained of all strength and authority, Felix asks, “What are you waiting for?” and bucks his hips even though he feels far from ready for a real fucking. “Keep going.” He touches Dimitri’s cock again, just a light circling of his fingers downward as far as he can reach, then back up again, and like last time, it works. 

Dimitri pulls his fingers back, then pushes them back inside, over and over again, each time forcing Felix into making ridiculous whining sounds, which Dimitri likes. Felix knows he likes it, can tell when he slides another finger in and presses in even harder, his eye never leaving Felix’s face. Felix likes it too, far more than he would ever admit, this feeling of losing control — of his breath, his voice, and his hips, which now seem to buck on their own accord, begging for Dimitri to touch his aching cock. 

But it isn’t enough, if what they learned about the magic is correct. Dimitri needs to fuck him in earnest, so Felix pants, “F-fuck me...already,” his words fighting through another moan. 

Dimitri draws back his hand entirely, leaving Felix feeling empty and unsatisfied, his thighs shaking, his body seemingly not wanting to cooperate when he props himself up on his elbows to reach for the vial before Dimitri can. 

He doesn’t look up at Dimitri as he applies the oil to his cock, but Felix hears the deep, rumbling sounds that build in his chest as he rubs the oil over his length — notices the way Dimitri pushes into his hand, wanting to be touched by him, craving it in the same way that Felix is now craving to be fucked. It’s dangerous, it’s more dangerous than the battle that led to this mess, than even the magic they are trying to work against. It’s dangerous because every touch, every kiss, every glance is dragging something out into the open and Felix is afraid of what they’ll see when it’s all laid bare. 

But if he’s honest with himself — truly honest, without the bluster, without the anger and resentment and the way his concern always seems to twist into something dark and painful — he is more afraid of losing Dimitri. Again. 

So he coats Dimitri’s cock until it is nice and slick, guiding it into full firmness, then lies back down, raises his legs, and says, “Fuck me like you mean it.” 

A series of conflicting emotions pass across Dimitri’s face and it seems as though he wants to speak. Mentally, Felix wills him against it — _Don’t you say it, don’t you put this to words_ — and then he runs his hand over himself, to show Dimitri that he will not lie here and wait for him to have another crisis of conscience. 

But all Dimitri says is, “Felix,” as if the name alone can communicate everything on his mind. 

Then he positions himself between Felix’s legs. 

As Dimitri takes hold of Felix's thigh and presses the head of his cock against his hole, their eyes meet. Felix says, “Do it,” and holds his breath in anticipation. 

Dimitri pushes himself inside with steady, unrelenting pressure, and despite the preparation before this, Felix feels as though he won’t be able to take all of him. He means to relax, to accept all of Dimitri, but his body fights it — muscles tightening, legs hooking around Dimitri’s body to keep him from moving further, hands darting to grab him, slow him, stop him. There’s too much of Dimitri, there’s always been too much of him, and it’s always been Felix trying to make sense of it, accommodate it, fight against it, whatever he could — 

And he can’t. He can’t do it. 

Except, just when he feels the wild desire to bail, to shove away, to cut off the panicked cry that he fails to stifle, Dimitri takes the hand that is pushing at his arm and digging nails into his skin, and says firmly, without any of his earlier hesitancy, “You must relax.” 

Felix looks at Dimitri through the tears that have welled in his eyes and sees him for all that he is: a beast who would tear a soldier apart in one moment and look at Felix with concern in the next; a man who was afraid to touch Felix mere moments ago, but now expects him to take his cock in full. 

And he does it. He takes a deep breath and he relaxes and accepts Dimitri completely, all of him, until Dimitri is fully inside, filling him up, still holding his hand. 

“I’m — _ah_ — relaxed,” Felix chokes out, though he feels as though his entire body will fracture into pieces if Dimitri so much as moves. “Go.” 

Dimitri does not start slow. He does not go easy on him. Whether it’s because of Felix’s earlier comments, or because he’s trying to end this as quickly as possible, or simply because he likes making Felix moan with abandon, once he begins to thrust his hips and pump his cock into Felix’s body, he does not stop. 

There are no adequate words for the sound that hitches its way out of Felix’s throat and builds in volume as Dimitri grabs him by the hip while he thrusts into him — no way for his mind to make sense of the way that _too much_ sensation suddenly becomes _not enough_ , craving more despite feeling as though he won’t be able to take it. His cock leaks, throbbing for attention, but he knows that if Dimitri so much as glances his hand over it, Felix will lose himself entirely. 

Dimitri makes sounds now, too — animalistic grunts and groans that should give Felix enough pause to make associations with the _boar_ label to which he still so stubbornly clings, but Felix finds that right now, as they are, those sounds have as much a hold on him as Dimitri has on both his hip and hand. He wants Dimitri to lose himself, just as he is too far lost to consider what that means. 

Then Dimitri shifts — moves his hand to hoist Felix’s leg up higher so that Felix takes him deeper, and he hits that spot within him so entirely that Felix’s whole body lurches with the onslaught of pleasure. It brings Felix so close to release that a sob builds within his chest; he wants it more than he has ever wanted anything, and yet he dreads it, too — what it will mean to give this to Dimitri, to shatter in a way that he tried to show he wouldn’t. 

He has no choice — Dimitri releases his hand and grasps his cock and that’s all it takes. Felix cries out as he pulses through the height of his climax, so overcome, he doesn’t realize that he has reached for Dimitri, pulled him as close as possible, clung to him as he shuddered through it, until it finally subsides, leaving a mess on his body and tears on his cheeks. 

“You’re crying,” Dimitri breathes. He tries to slow his thrusting, but Felix keeps him close, digs his nails into Dimitri’s back and moves his hips to protest Dimitri’s attempt to stop. 

“Keep going,” he forces through his gritted teeth. _Stay alive,_ he thinks. _Don’t give in._

Dimitri is slow to resume, but Felix fights his resistance, moves beneath him as best he can, clenching himself around Dimitri until his threadbare resolve snaps, until the tight heat of Felix’s body becomes too much and he thinks not of Felix’s tears, but how it will feel to lose himself to this, to be uninhibited once again. 

Felix gives him the permission he needs to give in. 

Then Dimitri thrusts, grasping Felix tightly, letting himself go. 

Dimitri keeps his hold on Felix’s leg and bucks his hips with renewed energy. Felix can only whimper weakly, throwing his arm over his face so as to hide how overwhelmed he is, how each aftershock of sensation continues to expose just how vulnerable he feels — until Dimitri finally tenses toward his own climax. 

In the crux of the moment, Felix jerks his arm away from his face and makes himself look at Dimitri — watches as his breath hitches, his body tensing with the effort of holding out for one final moment. Dimitri looks back at him at him — not with lust, but with something approaching reverence, so openly emotional that Felix cannot bring himself to look away. Then the expression crumbles; Dimitri thrusts with such fervor, Felix cries out yet again, and Dimitri comes within him in a rush of pulsating warmth, his half-broken apology drowned out by a guttural groan. 

And then it’s over. Dimitri slumps forward, his head coming to rest above Felix’s shoulder, his chest heaving in tandem with Felix’s own. Felix tries to free his arm so he can wipe his face, but his body is too weak and Dimitri is too heavy. 

And maybe it’s for the best. As soon as they end this, they will have to face what they have done. 

They remain like that, breathing heavily, seemingly frozen in place, both of them afraid to move. But they can’t stay like this forever, so Felix eventually says, “Get off of me,” in a voice so weak it makes him cringe. 

Dimitri raises himself up and pulls out of Felix. Felix is left feeling empty, messy, gaping. He takes a shaky breath and tries to stand on unsteady legs, feeling — wounded, somehow, as though torn open, everything inside of him bleeding out for Dimitri to see. 

They don’t look at each other in the aftermath. Felix retrieves his undershirt and does his best to clean himself up. Dimitri is slower to move, gathering his own clothing. It isn’t until they have covered themselves into an acceptable manner of dress that Felix looks at Dimitri — sees that he’s taken a seat on the ground, hunched in on himself again, staring out into the darkness, not unlike when he initially found him sitting out here. 

“Do you feel different?” Felix asks, his voice once again having found a measure of disdain, pretending that he doesn't ache in body and spirit both. He tries to push everything they’ve done to the back of his mind, hopes to forget that it ever happened, that he ever wanted, that Dimitri had torn him open in a way that Felix wanted to believe would not be possible. 

Dimitri mutters, “I feel worse.” 

_Don’t_ , Felix wants to say. _Don’t make this more difficult._ Though he has wiped his face of tears, the tracks they left behind seem to burn as he hears Dimitri’s answer. 

He should walk away. He should leave Dimitri to fix himself, because Felix himself is in pieces, has his own work to do to build himself back up again, patch his walls, reinstate his defenses. He should refuse to look at Dimitri until he’s sure that he will never feel these lingering, unsettling emotions ever again — that he can smother them until they die. 

But this is what Dimitri doesn’t seem to recall about the game they played as children: yes, it hurt. Yes, Felix cried until his knuckles were healed, and then continued to cry thereafter because he still felt so broken despite being fixed. But when he found Dimitri later, curled up on his bed hiding tears of his own, he wiped his face, took Dimitri into his arms, and said, _It’s okay. I’m okay. It’s not your fault._

So that’s what Felix does now. He ignores the way it still hurts, the way he still feels raw and exposed, the way he doesn’t know if this can ever truly be fixed — and he sits beside Dimitri. Felix swallows everything he could ever want to say, all the spite that attempts to surface in an effort to shove away what they’ve done, all the hate he wants but fails to feel, and simply leans against Dimitri. 

He says, “It’s okay,” and hopes that if he says it enough times, both of them will come to believe it.


End file.
